


A Failure of Science

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Because of Reasons, Community: sentinel_thurs, Crack, Gen, Horrible terrible no good very bad crack, No angst!, See the end notes if you want to know what kind of crack this is in advance, Sentinel Thursday, This was never even on my bucket list to write sheesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2020-03-07 14:13:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18874834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 525 : "blue"Never, my children,neversay you will never write something, or you will find yourself writing it. Whether you want to or not.I mean: Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad, and Positively Unnecessary and Indefensible CRACK. Which is also OOC. Because of reasons. (See the note at the end of you really want to know in advance, but I promise nobody dies or anything like that.





	A Failure of Science

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 525 : "blue"
> 
> Never, my children, _never_ say you will never write something, or you will find yourself writing it. Whether you want to or not. 
> 
> I mean: Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad, and Positively Unnecessary and Indefensible CRACK. Which is also OOC. Because of reasons. (See the note at the end of you really want to know in advance, but I promise nobody dies or anything like that.

There must have been something in the water. Nobody's come up with a better explanation, anyway. Science certainly hasn't.

And just _screw_ science and the horse it rode in on. Science has failed Blair, and at any given moment these days, that really pisses him off. 

Okay, so science has failed more people than Blair. One hundred and ninety-six days ago (as calculated by _science,_ which is so not Blair's favorite academic discipline right now), science failed sixty-eight point seventy-three percent of the xy-chromosome-bearing employees of the Cascade Police Department, and roughly — accurate statistics have been impossible to come by — forty-five percent of the rest of the xy-chromosome-bearing adult civilian population of Cascade.

Cascade, the most dangerous city in America. 

Across the bullpen, Jim puts down the case file he's been reading to grab a Kleenex and dab hastily at his eyes, and Blair grits his teeth. Screw science and the horse it rode in on and the hay the horse ate for breakfast. 

Blair swivels his chair to face a less irritating view — as if there _is_ one of those right now — and sees Joel approaching the desk where Blair's currently ensconced himself (as far away from Jim as he could get today; he did _not_ sign up to deal with weepy Jim Ellisons).

It's about time Joel got back. At least now Blair might just survive the next hour or so. 

Or not. Joel looks entirely too apologetic. "I'm sorry, Blair, but none of the vending machines in the building have any Skittles left," Joel says. "I did get your Funyuns, though."

Blair stares at the snack-size bag of Funyuns Joel's just put down on the desk in front of him, and something inside him snaps. "Joel," he says slowly, "what the hell, man? Are you trying to starve me to death? You _know_ I can't eat the Funyuns unless I have Skittles to go along with them. You could've walked over to the Minit-Mart on Fifth. It's not like you couldn't use the exercise."

Joel's face falls."I'll see what I can do when Kaminsky gets back, okay? It shouldn't be too long." He droops a little as he walks away, and Blair glares at his receding back.

"That was mean, Chief," Jim says from just behind Blair's shoulder. His voice sounds a little watery and he makes a sniffling noise, and Blair scowls. Screw science, the horse, the hay the horse had for breakfast, and the agricultural conglomerate responsible for growing the hay in the first place.

"Well, I'm _hungry,"_ he says, not turning to look at Jim, because _no._ "You want Mr. Nice Guy, go find me some Skittles."

"Or Jim could just bring you a doughnut from the doughnut cart," Rafe says, breaking off from a conversation with Cavanaugh and Fong to — oh, joy — join them, and Jim bursts into sobs. 

Talk about being _mean._ Blair turns his scowl on Rafe and ups the wattage. Rafe knows perfectly well how upset Jim gets when anybody mentions doughnuts these days. (Or ponies. Or argyle socks.) 

"What is _wrong_ with you, Rafe?" Blair says, even though he knows what's wrong with Rafe (or, more to the point, what's _right_ with the jerk; being part of the thirty-one point twenty-seven percent of the PD that science did _not_ fail has really brought out the worst in Rafe's heretofore pleasant character.)

"Me? Not a thing." Rafe looks smug, the heartless jerk. How Henri can stand having him as his partner is flat-out baffling.

Jim's still sobbing into a wad of damp Kleenex, and Blair turns enough to pat him soothingly on the shoulder — or as soothingly as he can; it's really annoying to try to be soothing when you're _starving to death_ — and raises his voice to yell at H, who's across the bullpen. "Henri, get Rafe out of here, okay? He's being a jackass again."

Rafe raises his hands and backs off as H heads in their direction. Henri looks exasperated, but only mildly — kind of saint-like, actually, if saints can get exasperated. He's got his "Jazz, Baby" T-shirt on, the one with the arrow that points downward underneath the word "Baby," and if it weren't for the chiding look he's giving Rafe he'd be positively beaming.

Henri's… well, Henri's _happy._ About this. About swollen ankles and aching backs and clothes that don't remotely fit anymore. About the months' worth of morning sickness. (Okay, that was Blair, not Henri. Well, Blair and Simon and Ray Hanson and Billy Fong and half the guys Blair knows in Forensics. And all of them are over it now, thank God.) About cravings for banana pudding with a side of kimchee. (Okay, that was Blair again. Yesterday. But it's the principle of the thing.)

The point is, Henri's happy about _everything._ He doesn't seem fazed that little Henrietta-to-be is going to have to leave the territory marked by that arrow on his T-shirt _somehow,_ sooner or later (or exactly eighty-four days from now, according to _science),_ and that no actual bodily mechanism exists for that to happen naturally.

As if a natural mechanism existed for Henrietta and her cohorts to exist in the first place. Right.

At least Henri's towing Rafe back across the bullpen now, and Jim's sobs are winding down into sniffles. The bullpen door opens, and Blair nudges Jim's arm with his elbow. "Hey, Simon's here," he tells Jim. "Didn't you want to talk to him about the evidence we dug up on Kenyon?"

"Not _now,"_ Jim practically whimpers. " _Look_ at him."

Blair looks. And yeah, maybe Jim has a point. Simon's bracing his lower back with one hand and scowling like a massively pissed-off thunderstorm (so thunderstorms don't scowl, so what? if they could, they'd look just like Simon does at this moment), and Jim definitely has a point. The Kenyon case isn't so time-sensitive that they can't give Simon an hour or two — or maybe three or four — in his office to put his feet up and drink some of Rhonda's ginger tea before they barge in on him.

Anyway, Blair needs his Funyuns and _Skittles,_ dammit, before trying to deal with Simon. Or to deal with anything, for that matter.

…Like deal with Megan, who — unfortunately — trailed into the bullpen behind Simon. "Found another one, Sandy," she says now, a copy of _Baby Time!_ magazine in hand and a gleeful expression on her face. "You blokes are going to love it. You need a ball of string for this one, and everybody —"

"Finish that sentence and die, Connor," Blair growls, and Megan cackles. She's having way too much fun planning a massive baby shower for MCU's share of the PD's sixty-eight point seventy-three percent, and every single game she's described so far (and there have been many of them; far, far too many of them) has been evil. That, or humiliating. Not to mention the pile of — totally unnecessary, like they don't all already know each other? — name tags she's got stashed in a locked drawer. Apparently they're all going to be forced to endure her evil, humiliating shower wearing pastel pink and blue name tags printed with completely nauseating phrases in baby talk. 

"But it's _traditional,"_ she says, smirking. 

Blair just glares at her and she cackles again and (thank God) heads off towards her desk. 

"She's right," Jim says, still sounding kind of watery.

Blair snorts. "No, Jim, she's not. Nothing about this is traditional." Dammit, where is Joel with those Skittles? A person could starve to death around here, seriously.

Well, a person and a half. More than a half, now.

If Joel didn't look so wistful all the time, like he really wished he was one of the sixty-eight point seventy-three percent, Blair would —

Jim's voice interrupts Blair's train of thought before he can come up with the perfect mental _mot juste._ "But you're an anthropologist," Jim says, his voice a little petulant. "You should be making notes. Researching. Doing whatever anthropologists do when they're confronted with something new to study about traditions and society and all that crap." He lowers his voice. "You're not even studying _me."_ There's a wavery quality to that "me" that has Blair reaching for the nearest Kleenex box and passing it over to Jim ASAP.

He also pats Jim's shoulder again. Kind of absently, but they've had this conversation before. Many times. So many times.

And Blair _is_ making notes. He _is._ When he's not starving to death _because he needs Skittles._

Or, occasionally, kimchee. Or the deep-fried dill pickles they make at Mirandy's Kitchen.

Or…

"Here you go, Blair," Joel says, beaming proudly as he hands Blair a bag of Skittles, and Blair grabs his Funyuns from the nearby desktop and rips open both bags and digs in. 

"Manners, Chief," Jim says primly, and Blair rolls his eyes. 

He does mumble, "Thanks," around his latest mouthful, though. Jim's going to be a great dad.

That is, if they — and the city of Cascade, and the country… hell, the planet — survive the next few months. At least the National Guard is in place to help deal with any issues that may arise while a big chunk of the city's police department is, ah… otherwise occupied, and the veritable army of rabidly fascinated obstetricians that's moved into the area for the duration keeps making encouraging noises about "viable" plans to "handle things." And hey, the CDC will probably even lift the quarantine, eventually. And the _National Enquirer_ left town as soon as it became clear that the "Freak Male Pregnancies Knock Up Nearly an Entire City" story was actually true, abandoning the field to CNN and MSNBC and Saturday Night Live skits. Things could be worse.

Also, Blair has Skittles. Things could be a lot worse.

Jim's got his ass parked a little awkwardly on the edge of the desk Blair's sitting at and Blair puts his bag of Funyuns down long enough to give Jim's belly a gentle pat. Little Claire kicks his hand in thanks — okay, it's coincidence, Blair _knows_ that, but he can't help grinning anyway.

He rubs his own belly, where Jimmy's apparently peacefully asleep. 

(Jimmy as in Jimi Hendrix, okay? You know, possible granddad? Not Jimmy as in Jim Ellison.)

Blair pops another Skittle into his mouth and looks up to find a ridiculously goofy — and wobbly — smile on Jim's face.

…Okay, totally Jimmy as in Jim Ellison.

"Awww. Baby wuvs Da-da?" Megan whispers — obnoxiously — in Blair's ear, appearing out of nowhere with her evil grin and making Blair (and little Jimmy) jump.

Jim bursts into tears.

Blair shakes the Skittles bag and it's empty; all the Skittles are gone.

 _All the Skittles are gone._ Blair still has Funyuns left, and _all the Skittles are gone._ Screw science and the horse it rode in on, the horse's breakfast and the providers thereof, and the corporation that makes Skittles in such stupidly tiny bags. And screw —

"Chief," Jim says on a wavery sob, and Blair hands him the Kleenex box again. The guy who pushes the doughnut cart around the building opens the hallway door and sticks his head into the bullpen, and Blair waves him off frantically, praying that Jim doesn't notice; the Kleenex supply is beginning to run a little low.

Jim hiccups a couple of times and grabs some more Kleenex, and Blair scowls.

Cascade. It's the most dangerous city in America. 

And it needs _more Skittles._ It needs more Skittles _now._

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILER WARNING: MPREG.
> 
> No, seriously. MPREG.
> 
> Yes, I know, okay?


End file.
